The Journey
by jakela
Summary: Love is one thing, loving something else entirely. Is Joss ready to take the next step with John? Contains dialog from the scene in the precinct between John and Joss in The Crossing. Always Careese.
1. Chapter 1

The Journey – Chapter 1

Love is one thing, _loving_ something else entirely. Is Joss ready to take the next step with John? Contains dialog from the scene in the precinct between John and Joss in The Crossing. Always Careese.

XXX

"Hey, Carter, you here for the guy in a suit?"

Joss nodded at the older police officer, Bill Chatzky. "Yeah, Chat. Guess he got picked up by mistake and the brass wants someone to smooth it over with him before he gets released."

The Third Precinct had been officially closed for over a year due to extensive damage from Hurricane Sandy; there were a few administrative people still working there, but little else went on. With the uproar regarding the arrests of Quinn and hundreds of his HR cohorts flooding precincts around the city, John had been moved to this ancient building for his final processing.

HR had called in dozens of false reports that night to keep the legitimate police busy and to cover their pursuit, and Finch's lawyers had used that to their advantage, threatening to add to the stack of lawsuits already piling up on the Commissioner's desk, but finally 'conceding' since their client did have an unlicensed weapon, they would be satisfied with an apology from NYPD.

With no current cases assigned to her and a tip from Harold, Joss was available and conveniently in the detectives' bullpen, when her captain bellowed at her to go to the Third and make nice with the man who was being released this evening.

Chatzky nodded. "Got it. He did have a weapon without a permit, but with all this HR shit, he won't be the last one. Public feels they have to protect themselves from the perps – _and_ the cops! Can't say I blame 'em," he shook his head in disgust. "I like to shake the hand of the person who brought those fuckers down – heard they're in Wit Sec until the trial."

Joss nodded. "Probably the safest place for them, Chat."

"Yeah." As he slid the paperwork over to her to sign, Chatzky lowered his voice. "Hey…" he paused as a group of people walked out of the building, "we're done for the night…can you do me a favor…"

Joss leaned closer to hear him. "What do you need?"

"Can you close up for us…Chew and I met these hot chi- I mean _ladies,_ and we're havin' drinks with them tonight."

Joss sighed, shaking her head. "Chat…" Chatzky and Chusent, known as Chat and Chew, chased women the way they chased criminals – relentlessly and thoroughly. Legends in NYPD for their work, and their love lives, the two old Lotharios were enjoying a few months of desk duty before retirement.

"It's just me, Chew and the suit left. I've set the cameras and lights to shut off in a few minutes. The alarm is a simple keypad and everything else is set." He gave her the look that had seduced three ex-wives, all who still saw him on a regular basis. "_Please_?"

Joss rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah, just get out of here before I change my mind."

"Thanks. I owe you big time, Carter." His eyes twinkled. "You know, I'd much rather go out for a drink with _you_. How 'bout it?" He grinned at her. "You can give me my retirement _gift_ a few months early, if you want."

Joss laughed. "Chat, if you want to _live_ to see retirement, you should quit _now_!"

"Can't blame a guy for trying. You look good, Carter, real good. Life must be agreeing with you." Chatzky handed her a card with the alarm code written on it. "Last office, all the way down on the right. He's all yours."

Joss smiled softly as she turned toward the long hall leading to the office where John was being held. 'Yeah,' she thought, 'he certainly is.'

Chew nodded to her as they passed in the entrance to the narrow corridor, and she could hear him laughing with Chat as they prepared to head out for their evening.

Out of sight of the two men, Joss' smile faded as she stood there, looking down the long hall. All the offices were dark, except for the one at the very end where she could see a small circle of light shining through the glass.

The days had passed by in a blur. After being confronted with just a little of the mountain of evidence Joss had collected against HR, Quinn had sold out his men trying to save his own skin. Simmons had died in a bloody shootout with Fusco. The remaining HR members had turned on each other as they fought for deals with prosecutors. HR was dead, truly dead this time, never to return.

In a rare show of cooperation and intelligence, the FBI and the NYPD had managed to keep her name under wraps for now; Joss had been quietly reinstated as a Detective and the FBI had seconded her to a joint task force on organized crime. She was going to spend the next year working in Washington, DC, while the case against Quinn and HR was finalized before trial.

Taylor would be living with her ex-husband, Paul, while she was away. One of the bright spots of her unavailability and secretiveness during the months she was building the case against HR was the strengthening of the relationship between Taylor and Paul; it was good to see them be so good together.

Joss had snuck in food from Fusco's favorite falafel joint into his hospital room, sipped tea with Harold and tossed back shots with Shaw. She had a glass of that wonderful wine with Elias and they shook hands as they formally dissolved their arrangement, acknowledging that they would be on opposite sides of the law again.

And on a pale dawn, Joss had laid flowers on Beecher's and Szymanski's graves.

She had spoken to, and spent time with everyone important to her.

Except John.

Rikers had taught her a tragic lesson about letting her emotions show and Joss was determined not to give anyone a hint that she knew the man sitting in this building. Finch and Shaw had worked tirelessly to remove any digital and physical trace of John's presence as he had accompanied her across the city, and Fusco had quietly checked on John, assuring her that he was okay while he was in custody.

Joss heard Chat and Chew leave, the clang of the front door closing echoing through the building.

But as she stood there, Joss wondered if her staying away from John wasn't just about keeping him safe.

The hallway stretched out in front of her, vanishing into the darkness.

'_Once you go down that road, there's no looking back.'*_

John had spoken those words to her a lifetime ago, and as Joss stared at the long gray ribbon of tile, she thought about all the journeys she had taken with him, each one leading to this very moment.

There had always been something between them, but Joss had pushed it aside, even as they became closer, even as they spent more and more time together. John had become a regular at her house, his own coffee mug next to hers and Taylor's. He had found a ratty old U Dub** sweatshirt at a thrift shop, delighting at her grimace as he'd fish it out of the coat closet, throwing it on and plopping beside her and Taylor on the couch as they watched a movie or some sporting event together.

They'd talk, sometimes for hours and hours, and even though there were disagreements and fights and times when they did not speak to each other, somehow they always came back together, they always found each other.

Joss would come home and the _Puyallup Herald_ would be neatly folded with the other recyclables, his mug washed and sitting in the dish rack.

Joss had drunk from that mug every day that he was in custody.

John was the man of the house even though he didn't live there.

Beecher had sensed his presence and his possessiveness and jealousy were driven by it.

Zoe's sharp glances and sly cutting barbs told Joss that the only thing John shared with her was his body.

But Beecher was gone, and Shaw had told Joss in her blunt caustic way over a drink several weeks ago that John had ended his relationship with Zoe.

And Joss knew that when she called John for help as she drove to Judge Monahan's house that the last barrier between them had fallen.

John Reese had not only stepped over that barrier, he'd kicked it aside and shattered it in the morgue.

John loved her, she knew it, and Joss knew she loved him.

But love was one thing, _loving_ something else entirely.

Was she ready to take this journey with John?

Her hand slipped into her jacket pocket, curling around the bullet John had given her.

Silently, she moved down the hall.

Joss took a deep breath, opened the office door and walked in.

*Season One episode, _Legacy_

**University of Washington. In the Season Two episode _Prisoner's Dilemma_, John Warren received his MBA from there.

A/N: Next, trouble.


	2. Chapter 2

The Journey – Chapter 2

They all smelled alike, John Reese thought.

He'd been in more police stations than he cared to admit, all over the world, and they all smelled alike, a mix of blood, sweat, dirt, disappointment and despair that no amount of disinfectants and cleansers could ever get rid of.

The smell seeped into everything, from the lowest dankest holding cells to the gleaming spacious offices covered with citations and photos of dignitaries. No matter how new the building was, how much architects and space planners lauded their innovative designs, how many air circulation systems, vents and fans were installed, in just a matter of weeks, the smell was there, etching itself into the bones, the very marrow of the building itself.

Staffers would complain that the water was brackish and management would bring in bottled water, but the coffee still tasted funny, even if it had just been brewed moments before. They would gripe that their spouses insisted that they change in the garage or on the porch before entering their home, swearing that the smell lingered, even on their street clothes. They told stories about how victims of theft, instead of thanking the authorities for returning their property to them, would storm into the station days later, claiming that their valuables had been ruined with an awful odor while they were in police hands.

And over time the smell also seemed to etch itself into the bones and marrow of the people who worked there too, wearing them down and isolating them from the rest of the world, so that in their loneliness, resentment and rage, a group like HR seemed to be the only place where they would be accepted and welcomed, where no one would notice the smell.

Sometimes Reese wondered if the smell had driven Fusco to corruption as much as Stills had.

Joss never had that smell about her. Reese had sensed it, even looking at her through the glass, and he knew it, the moment she stepped into the room to talk to him, all those months ago. There was something in her, something that burned so bright and clear and true that the smell couldn't permeate it, even though it tried.

It wasn't easy he knew, for her to fight it. She would yell and scream and throw things, run until she could barely stand, and when a case especially got to her, Reese would slip into her home and find Joss on her knees, scrubbing the kitchen floor in the middle of the night, her chest heaving with silent sobs.

He had learned to wait until she was done and then Reese would lead Joss to the living room couch, go back into the kitchen, take her mug from its place between his and Taylor's and make her a cup of tea. He would sit beside her, gently put the mug into her trembling hands, watch her as she slowly sipped it, her body calming, and then Reese would pick Joss up in his arms and carry her upstairs to her bedroom.

Her dark eyes would silently thank him as he laid her down on the bed and then a veil would descend over them, shutting him out, and even though Reese wanted to lie down beside her, wanted to hold her until she fell asleep, he would nod, smile softly and leave.

Joss had once called their relationship 'whatever this is', and it was a term that allowed them to pretend, to tell their small world that they were allies, comrades, just friends, that let them believe that they were fooling everybody else, willfully ignoring the raised eyebrows, cryptic comments and knowing glances that clearly told them otherwise.

They hadn't just built a house of cards; it was a house of cards built on sand and the tide had come rushing in a long time ago, Reese thought, lips quirking at the mix of worn out clichés, yet he and Joss would stand on that imaginary shore and attempt to rebuild that house again and again, even though each time they tried there were more pieces broken, more pieces scattered and missing, until finally in that ugly stark room, a place that housed bodies, a place of death, there were no more pieces left and Reese finally said and did what he should have said and done a long time ago.

Reese had been a coward, he knew, not just for not letting Joss know how he felt about her, but for never really letting her know how much she had impacted his life, how much she had changed him.

But as he slipped through the vent, with the touch of her soft skin on his hand and the taste of her beautifully full lips on his own, Reese felt a sense of peace that this time, he had finally said something, that no matter what happened, that even if he never saw her again, Joss _knew_.

His shoulder twinged and Reese shifted in the chair, easing his aching muscles. Miraculously, the bullet that hit him in the morgue hadn't penetrated his skin; he had a deep bruise all the way down to the bone, and while one member of the staff that processed him into custody took a long look at the angry red mark on his back, the news about HR quickly took everyone's attention and Reese was shuffled off to the side and forgotten.

He sat there, forcing the muscles of his face, one by one, to assume a mask of casual interest as the news played across the screens in the holding area, while inside he was screaming to know if Joss had made it, if she was alright. All that was said was that Quinn had been taken into custody and as rumors circulated throughout the jail, speculation about who had captured the head of HR ran wild, but no further information was given.

It was hours later that Fusco, his face bruised, left hand in cast, casually wandered into the holding area to chat with one of the staff, and his curt nod let Reese know that Joss was ok.

That night, alone in his cell, Reese vomited all the fear and tension out of his body.

He sank slowly onto his cot, tears of relief and joy streaming down his face.

The next day, several prisoners were suddenly released and fled the country, and the revelation that not only were they HR members, but that their release was orchestrated by the head of the city's corrections department who managed to escape as well, caused the Mayor, already enraged and embarrassed that a criminal mastermind was operating right under his very nose, to issue an executive order banning any more prisoner releases. Security, which was tight to begin with, became absolutely draconian, and lawyers for only the most critical cases were allowed to see their clients.

Days passed without a word from anyone.

The search for Simmons intensified and Reese smiled grimly when news filtered through the jail that he had been killed by Fusco.

Finally, one of Finch's bloodless lawyers met with Reese and told him that he would be released.

He was brought to this old precinct and an officer named Chusent informed Reese that a member of NYPD would meet with him, issue a formal apology, finalize his paperwork and then personally escort him out of the building.

And so, Reese sat in another police station, nursing a cup of brackish water, waiting for some bureaucrat and inhaling that unique smell.

XXX

Joss paused as she entered the room.

John was sitting there, his head slightly bowed, those long fingers curled around a plastic cup of water.

The small office was like any other across the city, crammed full with enough furniture and equipment for a space five times its size, the walls covered with unread memos and old directives from numerous department initiatives. Papers were strewn about in haphazard stacks, and any personal items and tchotchkes brought in by the office occupants in a foolish attempt to personalize their space had long since been forgotten, shoved in corners and covered with dust.

Joss' eyes filled with tears as she remembered the first time she saw John. Even then, as he did now, John filled the room, his large frame radiating a kind of presence that drew her to him, that told her that there was something different about him.

She knew John well enough now to know that he could turn that presence on and off at will, that he could fade away in an empty room or stand out in a plaza full of thousands of people, but with her it was always there, always calling her to him.

His presence today was different, muted and he didn't meet her eyes.

A soft whirring sound caused Joss to turn to the camera overhead and she saw the lens 'wink' as it shut down, the bright green 'Power' button becoming dull and lifeless.

Crossing the small space, Joss sat on the desk next to John, leaning forward. "I'm Carter. You didn't give us a name."

She heard a slight intake of breath, and Joss knew John remembered that was how she had first introduced himself to him over two years ago.

He slowly lifted his head and looked at her, his eyes pale and washed of color. "Seems like the only time you need a name now is when you're in trouble….So…," John smiled softly, "am I in trouble?"

Joss stared at him, unable to speak. She knew what John was asking her, that he was well aware that days had passed since that moment in the morgue, cool clear mornings and long dark nights for her to think about what had happened between them. John knew that she had reviewed and analyzed every second, that she had turned everything over and over again in her mind, that she had considered the pros and cons of going forward with him.

It was part of who she was.

It had helped her survive, as a soldier and as a cop.

It had helped her form an alliance with the man who had kidnapped her son, who had tried to kill her.

It had helped her devise an intricate plan that had defeated HR.

And it had helped her walk away from marriage to a man she dearly loved to protect their child.

The kind ones said that she was pragmatic, analytical, a strategic thinker.

The not so kind ones said many other things, usually followed by the word bitch or something worse.

Only a few people other than her mother and her son saw the real Joss, the person underneath, and those people only saw it after a long, long time.

Except John.

John had seen her from the very beginning.

Perhaps that was what really frightened her about him.

John pushed the cup aside, sliding his arm forward on the desk, the hand that had touched her face just inches from her own.

"Am I in trouble?" he asked her again.

It wouldn't be easy, Joss thought, but the new job and the miles apart would help. They could still talk, still spend a few hours together on the weekends she came home, still flop on the couch and drink beer while he wore that ratty old sweatshirt she hated, until what was so raw and real would fade away, would turn into something soft and formless, would form the basis for a new version of 'whatever this is.'

The words sounded hollow and stupid in her mind as she thought them, her tongue curling up in rebellion, even though she hadn't said a word.

"Joss," his voice was a whisper, "am I in trouble?"

The hallway lights clicked off and the office was only lit by two small desk lamps, turning their bodies into silhouettes, as solid and still as the hard metal and cold glass around them.

"No, John, you're not in trouble."

Even in the darkness, she could see his shoulders sag, just a little, then he nodded.

Joss stood up. "Let's get you out of here."

She turned and walked out of the office.

A/N: Next, cocooned.


End file.
